Leannor’s head shifted in agreement. “This I’ll not argue. Mistress Shilva has many agents scattered along the coast; they report that wherever the Ascendant Queen goes she gathers more recruits for her host. And everywhere she goes she talks of the arcane evil of the Caerith. Apparently, all the troubles and wars of Albermaine can be laid at the door of a people who only ever walked our lands in the smallest numbers. Sadly, such nonsense will ever find receptive ears. The False Queen inflicts a good deal of cruelty, but her lies win devotion.”

  “While her cruelty gathers more to us,” I said, nodding in Roulgarth’s direction. “Especially in Alundia where many will rise when the knight warden returns.”

  “It’s still a long march from there to Couravel,” Ehlbert pointed out. My reply faltered when I turned to him, distracted by a small movement at his back, just a slight shift in the shadows cast by the drapery. A moment of staring revealed the shadow to be a figure, a man of disconcertingly familiar bearing though his face was lost to the gloom.

  “Lord Scribe?” Leannor prompted when my silence lingered.

  “Forgive me,” I said, averting my gaze from the watchful man, knowing I alone in this chamber could see him. Clearing my throat, I went on, “I doubt the False Queen will be content to await us in Couravel. I suspect many of her most able soldiers will be gathered at the Lady’s Reach, her holdfast on the site of the old Walvern Castle. It’s possible we will also find her there, if we march swiftly enough.”

  “Strategy is one thing,” Leannor said. “But I have learned that success in war depends mostly on securing enough supplies to keep an army fed well enough to march and fight. Thanks to some profligate spending of the royal purse, not to mention provision of several loans from loyal but avaricious merchants, our fleet continues to sustain us and provide a stockpile. Yet it will be of scant use if we have no carts or horses to carry them with us to Albermaine.”

  “True, Majesty. But we have something our enemy does not, an entire fleet of ships which can supply us on the march, provided we keep close to the coast. Hopefully, we can secure more horses when we reach Alundia.”

  Leannor turned a questioning glance upon Ehlbert who consented to respond with a short nod. “Then it seems we have a stratagem,” the princess regent said, settling her shrewd attention upon Roulgarth. He matched it with a gaze equally lacking in unwavering appraisal. It occurred to me that Leannor was about to commit the salient error of demanding the knight warden of Alundia swear fealty to her son. Fortunately, her wit outweighed her pride on this occasion, and she concluded the council with placid formality.

  “Gentlemen, please see to the readying of your respective hosts with all the skill and energy of which I know you are capable. Lord Scribe, I also command that you form a company of masons and other suitably knowledgeable persons to see to the reshaping of this castle. Its current form is hardly befitting of the king’s majesty.”

  The shadows behind the throne shifted again and I saw that the watchful figure was gone. I harboured only the faintest hope I wouldn’t see him again.

  “I’ll see to it, Majesty,” I said, bowing low.

  The watchful ghost left me in peace for the following week, though I endured the passing days in a state of dreadful expectation. Why him? I asked myself continually. And how can he be here?

  The myriad tasks of organising the ever-growing mob of recruits into something resembling an army provided a welcome distraction, as did the works on Castle Dreol. Leannor’s insistence on expanding the holdfast could be interpreted as an example of wasteful pride, a diversion of labour and resources best employed elsewhere. In fact it provided a useful focus for the many souls among us unsuited to a soldier’s life, not to mention the artisans who set to the task with the enthusiasm of the beggared. Driven far from home with little in the way of possessions, this new royal abode at least provided work and wages, all paid from Crown coffers buttressed by the treasure of a long dead pirate. In lieu of handing out trinkets, Leannor employed the clever device of paying her workers with promissory notes, each one signed by the king’s own hand, bearing the ink stamp of the Algathinet seal. From the way the various masons, carpenters and labourers hoarded these scraps of paper you would think them spun from gold. Apparently, to people who had lost all they once owned, the word of a king still meant something. Consequently, work on the castle proceeded with far more speed than did the fashioning of the Crown Host into something battle worthy.

  Years of unending war had left me with the impression that most Albermaine-ish men of fighting age, and a good portion of the women, would have some experience of soldiering. A few days attempting to impose order and discipline upon the newly arrived recruits soon disabused me of this notion. Getting more than a dozen to stand in line and march in the same direction was an achievement. Days of drill and various forms of encouragement, from the gentle to the decidedly ungentle, failed to yield much progress. We retained a core of a thousand or so reasonably disciplined troops, plus Duke Gilferd’s Cordwainers, but the remainder were a dispiritingly ill-organised, and oft ill-tempered, mob that sent my recently appointed sergeants and captains into fits of angry despair.

  “Take a hundred of the laziest bastards and flog ’em,” was Tiler’s suggestion. “Hang ’em, even. Reckon we’ll have a lot less grumbling then.”

  “Many of them came to us in fear of the noose,” I reminded him. “Start down that road and they’ll be justified in asking themselves if there’s any difference between us and the False Queen.”

  A few days later, as I watched our first attempt at a company-sized advance descend into a shambles of jostling soldiers and colliding pikes, I wondered if Tiler might have a point.

  “City dwellers,” a flat voice commented, a voice possessed of a strange sibilant echo. “They always made the worst soldiers. Most have never seen more blood spilled than a tavern brawl.”

  I closed my eyes and drew in a deep breath before turning to confront the figure at my side. The watchful ghost had returned, and this time he wanted to talk.

  “Any skill can be learned,” I said, forcing my eyes open. “It just requires the will to learn it. Someone told me that once.”

  In life, this man would have responded to having his words quoted at him with a laugh, usually. Sometimes, if his mood was sour, it would have been a cuff to the head. In death, Deckin Scarl merely blinked empty eyes at me before returning his gaze to the unfolding mess on the practice field.

  “When I first marched under the banner,” he said in his oddly echoing voice, “the sergeant-at-arms would take an axe stave to any man who stepped out of line. Saw him beat a fellow to death once. Freck, the lad’s name was, on account of his face. Looked like a dog with the squits had shat all over it. Looked a lot worse with his brains leaking out of his skull, though.”

  If this delightful anecdote caused Deckin’s shade any amusement, it failed to show on the flaccid grey mask of his face. As with the boy in the forest and the drowned woman, I was beset by a deep desire to be away from this spectre. If I shouted forcefully enough, he might flee like the boy had. But then all these fumbling recruits would be presented with the sight of their captain screaming at nothing. Besides, the stone feather was supposed to aid our cause and perhaps it was time I summoned the fortitude to learn how to best use it.

  “How do you come to be here?” I asked Deckin after a good deal of swallowing. “You died far away and years ago.”

  “I died.” His voice was pitched somewhere between a question and a statement, heavy brows knitting in consternation. “Yes,” he muttered finally. “I remember. You were there, weren’t you, Alwyn?”

  “I was.” The memory of Sir Althus Levalle’s sword sweeping down to sever Deckin’s neck was not one I was ever likely to forget. I felt a spasm of relief that at least his ghost hadn’t appeared with an absent head and bloody stump.

  “Althus did it,” Deckin added after a moment of further reflection. “Good job he made of it too.” He stared around at the practice field. “Is he here?”

  “He’s dead. Met a well-deserved end and I’ve never heard a single word of grief wasted on the bastard.”

  “Oh.” Deckin spared the soul of his old comrade a short grimace of regret before continuing his survey of my soldiers’ inexpert manoeuvres. “Won’t do, Alwyn. Kindness doesn’t forge an army. Give them rules and be strict in making them stick. We had rules, didn’t we? Back in the forest.”

  “That we did.” Deckin’s rules had never been written down, but every member of our band could recite them by heart. Also, he had never been reluctant in making them stick, with blood if need be. “Thank you,” I said, receiving a vague nod in return.

  “Lorine isn’t here,” he said, face sagging. “I hoped she would be.”

  “She’s Duchess of the Shavine Marches now. Everything you wanted, she took.”

  “Wanted?” Deckin gave a dismissive snort. “No, that wasn’t it. I didn’t want it, I needed it. Needed to take from him, the bastard who sired me. But no, I never wanted it. I wanted what I had. Lorine, you, the others. It was enough. Beware your needs, Alwyn, they’ll bring you to your end if you’re not careful.”

  He turned to go, then paused, noticing something on the far side of the field. A crowd of soldiers had gathered around Quintrell as he regaled them with a jaunty tune on his mandolin. It had become his habit to entertain them in between bouts of drill, earning a few tots of their grog ration by way of payment.

  “I should’ve spotted Todman,” Deckin’s shade told me. “I always had a nose for the turncoats and the spillers. I missed him because of my need. Be sure you don’t let yours blind you too.”

  “Blind me to what?” I asked, but Deckin was gone. He didn’t fade like smoke in the wind or shimmer into nothing. He just slipped from whatever grasp the living world had on him, vanishing before I could even blink. I never saw him again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The morning after Deckin’s visit I posted the “Bill of Rights and Stipulations of the Crown Host”, nailing it to a post erected in the centre of the practice field. Also adorning the post were a pair of leather wrist straps that would be familiar to any veterans in the ranks. I had spent much of the previous night drafting the bill, calling on Wilhum, Tiler and a few others for sage advice. Making sure to open the proclamation with a list of soldiers’ rights was a deliberate ploy to sweeten the pill of the litany of rules and punishments that followed. Copies were provided to all captains and sergeants with instructions that they be read in full to their assembled companies.

  “All soldiers may air grievances to the lord commander of the Crown Host without fear of reprisal or disfavour,” Tiler recited to a typically untidy assemblage of recruits that morning. “Soldiers will be paid the sum of ten sheks per week. Payment will be in the form of Crown promissory notes, to be redeemed for coin following victory over the False Queen…”

  Various other benefits were listed, mostly concerning provision of proper care if wounded and a Crown pension for veterans. Then came the rules. It was a deliberately short list, making it hard for any transgressor to claim they had forgotten it.

  “For the crime of disobedience, five lashes,” Tiler said, leaving a pause between each rule to ensure the words sank in. “For the crime of drunkenness without leave, ten lashes. For the crime of theft from comrades, twenty lashes. For the crime of desertion or cowardice, death by hanging. These are the rules of this host. Any unwilling to abide by them should consider themselves free of further obligation. However, you are advised not to venture far from camp, for the Caerith have made it very clear they will not take kindly to outsiders wandering their lands.” Another pause as Tiler eyed his company with predatory intensity. “Any of you fuckers want out, raise your hands now. You won’t get a second chance.”

  There were, predictably, no raised hands among any of the companies that day. Inevitably, the need to administer punishment came before the week was out. A light-fingered soldier caught pilfering brandy was brought before me and duly sentenced to the requisite twenty lashes, to be delivered before the eyes of the entire host. A slightly built fellow, the brandy thief bore the first few lashes with surprising fortitude, but screamed with increasing volume after the sixth stroke. By the time it was over he collapsed, flayed back streaked with blood.

  I had none of Evadine’s facility for speech making, nor did I hunger for admiration or adulation from these folk. We shared a purpose, that was all. Still, I knew this event must be marked by the words of the man who presumed to lead this nascent army into battle. I chose to mount Uthren for the occasion, the paelah being sure to make an impression on all present, so long as he didn’t take it into his head to cast me off and gallop away. He and the paelah who had carried Juhlina north had lingered in the weeks since, consenting to be groomed and tended. They also allowed themselves to be ridden, but only by myself and Juhlina.

  Uthren appeared to possess some understanding of his role in this performance, tossing his head and dragging his fore hoof across the ground while I sat in stern regard of the assembled ranks. They were a good deal more tidy today. I spoke without preamble or introductions; they all knew me by now. Nor did I aspire to great rhetoric. I might be able to write such doggerel, but doubted I could sway an audience into believing it. So, I resorted to the simple truth.

  “I hoped this wouldn’t be needed,” I called out, pointing to the bloodied, sobbing man slumped against the whipping post. “I hoped that we could accomplish the task we share with the diligence it requires. For we are not children and this is no game. All who stand here have lost much. Some have lost property. Many have lost blood, their own and that of their kin. What this man did dishonours that loss. It cheapens it. We formed this army for the sole purpose of defeating a tyrant. We fight not for plunder, nor conquest, nor even faith. I offer no apology for what was done this day, nor will I hesitate to do it again. The rules of my command are simple and were communicated to you in full, and you all chose to stay. From here on in this is a true army, the Crown Host of the True King of Albermaine, a name to take pride in not to besmirch with petty thievery. You are soldiers now, so act like it.”

  The cheering was a surprise, causing me to pause in the act of tugging on Uthren’s reins and hoping he consented to turn and gallop off at a suitably impressive speed. Led by Wilhum, Tiler and the sergeants, the cry of “Victory and freedom!” rose from the ranks with too much concordance to be spontaneous. However, I did sense a certain grim enthusiasm in it. The faces of the soldiers nearby were stern, but their voices were loud. All very different from the wild-eyed devotion of the crowds that had cheered for Evadine. Still, the anger I saw was not directed at me. These were men and women with scores to settle and they would tolerate the lash if it brought them the vengeance they craved.

  Quintrell came to me a fortnight later, appearing at the tent I had chosen over a more comfortable billet in the rapidly expanding castle. There were too many shadows among those old stone walls for my liking. I had been spared further visitations since Deckin, but occasionally, in quiet moments, I caught flickers of movement where there should be none, and always seemingly crafted from the shadows.

  “A foul night, my lord,” Quintrell greeted me, white teeth appearing in the confines of the hood he wore against the rain. A storm had swept in from the sea at dusk, bringing a pelting deluge and thunder with it.

  “That it is.” I gestured for him to take a seat beneath the awning of my tent, handing him a cup of brandy.

  “Not going to flog me for this, I hope,” he said, drawing back his hood before accepting the cup. I searched for a barb in his tone or bearing, but found none. Just a minstrel attempting a joke.

  “I’ll save that for your next performance,” I said.

  He gave a dutiful chuckle and drank. I was impressed by the steadiness of his hand and the smoothness of his voice as he spoke on. “It is now incumbent upon me, my lord, to make unto you a confession of sorts.”

  “A confession?” I asked, my own voice and bearing one of interest forced through the veil of weariness from the day’s toil.

  “Indeed. Though I suspect what I am about to say will come as scant surprise.”

  “You never stopped spying.” I offered a bland smile in response to his surprised frown. “You’re right, that’s hardly a surprise. Though, it does raise the question: who exactly are you spying for these days?”

  “I am pleased to say I never, in truth, left Duchess Lorine’s employ. It was to her considerable benefit that she received regular and unvarnished reports of your progress.”

  “Delivered by what means? The Shavine Marches are a long ways off.”

  “But the seas betwixt here and there are busy with Mistress Shilva’s fleet, and I never met a sailor without a purse in want of filling. I’m sure your lordship wouldn’t expect me to divulge any particulars. For a man in my profession, secrets are wealth, after all.”

  I shrugged and raised my own cup to my lips. “I shall assume that somewhere on these busy seas there sails a ship with a suitably well-paid messenger, from whom you received a recent and important communication.”

  “Your insight is peerless, my lord.”

  “Stop sticking your tongue in my arse crack and tell me what she wants.”

  Quintrell inclined his head with an appropriately sheepish grin. He really was quite exceptional at his craft. “As you know, my lady has, due to dire necessity, sworn fealty to the False Queen. However, having witnessed the vast cruelty of the Ascendant Host during its rampage across her lands, not to mention the emptiness of her treasury due to ever increasing Crown taxes, Duchess Lorine feels the time has come to explore other possibilities.”

  “She wants to turn her coat, again. It’s always been something of a habit for those who govern the Shavine Marches.”